Jerusalem Mortimer wants a word

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Wicked Wednesday: Jennifer over the desk

Jennifer let her upper body rest on my desk, her arms reaching for the edge. She looked at me, helpless, fearful. The cane frightened her. I nodded at her. “Good girl.”

So I got up, walked round my desk. I stood behind her, and put my hand on the desk, almost touching her hip. The school skirt had risen almost all the way to her coccyx. It barely covered the upper hem of her panties. “Feet apart, girl.”

Jennifer said, “Yes, sir.” So one part of her training had been achieved. I smiled and watched her shuffle till her thighs were open for me, feet about half a metre apart.

She knew what she was giving me. It was more than obedience. She wanted me to like what I saw. It was incoherent, but it was desire. For the first time, probably, she wanted to be make a man unable to resist her, and to be taken.

I put my hand on her hip. Her head raised momentarily from the desk, then she subsided.

“This is the position you’ll be in where I cane you for the first time.”

She coughed. It was hard for her to speak. She managed, “Yes, sir.”

“So, how do you know you aren’t going to be caned now?”

Her head shook. She hadn’t known that at all. Then she stared at my chair, thinking of what I’d said to her. “Because I’m not naked, sir?”

“Good girl. That’s right. You’ll need to undress, before I cane you. Think of it as a formal occasion. Now, keep your head down, Jennifer. And keep still, if you don’t want to find out just how that feels.”

Her face rested on the wooden tabletop, as fast as she could. “Yes, sir!”

“I’m told the worst part is putting your clothes back on after you’ve been caned.”

“Ooh.” I let her think about that for a moment or two.

“Now.” I traced my finger along upper slopes of her bottom, through her panties. “That’s where you skirt reaches, if you bend over, girl. Did you realise that?”

Her face moved, though she didn’t dare lose contact with the tabletop. Of course she’d known that. She was torn between acknowledging just how provocative she’d been. Or lying. She said, “No, I didn’t know. Sir?”

I smiled and put my hand on her pantied bottom. “You didn’t sound very certain, Jennifer. I’m going to ask you again, and you’ve got one chance to answer truthfully.”

“Sir, I’m sorry, sir! I just – I was ashamed. I didn’t want to lie. I’m sorry. I did know. I did. You can punish me if you like.”

“That’s very generous of you, girl, but you’ll find that that’s up to me. And I said you had one chance, Jennifer. In fact I’m glad to hear you’re a bad liar. But don’t do it again. Ever.”

“Oh, sir, I’m sorry. Thank you, thank you, sir.”

“Well, if you do, you know you’ll get a very sore bottom.” I flipped the skirt up, out of the way. “By the way, how’s your bottom now?”

“Oooh, sir! It’s so sore!”

I smiled. I wasn’t sure that would pass the lie test either, though I hoped there was still pink, and she could still feel it. But it didn’t matter just then. I could teach her truthfulness later.